


death at the doorstep, blood on your hands

by subsocratic



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: (kinda), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - John Wick (Movies) Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, its a bounty hunter falls in love with his target situation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:48:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27509350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subsocratic/pseuds/subsocratic
Summary: The reaper, they call him. A god of death. Ask not for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for whoever Steve Rogers sets his sights on.Maybe this time, just this once, he could save a life instead.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 4
Kudos: 18





	death at the doorstep, blood on your hands

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my drafts for half a year now. Hopefully posting a bit of it will motivate me (pressure me) to finish it.

His grip on the steering wheel is knuckle-stark, and his breath is held in a vice in his chest as he manoeuvres his way into open road, mindful of the intersection. Anthony Stark is silent for once, beside him, staring at Sharon's blood-splattered phone in his hands as he reads the message written there, still open.

Steve Rogers, formerly of the Roma Ruska. 20 million USD.

Stane, it seems, has wasted no time. And to think- no, nothing. Steve should know better by now to rely on honor-bound oaths sworn by unreliable men. What is honor, after all, if promises are made in the dark?

  
"Rogers," Stark says, voice shaking, "Rogers what does this mean?"

  
Steve's jaw clenches as he makes a narrow turn, avoiding another rider. He's gonna have to deal with that, and soon. "Can you drive this?" Steve says in response, and doesn't wait for an answer, leaving Stark in a panicked scramble onto the driver's seat as Steve grabs his AR-15.

  
"Are you insane!?" Stark yells as Steve sticks his upper torso out of the window, and jabs the rider repeatedly by the neck, leaving him tumbling off of his motorcycle. He shoots them through the helmet's visor for good measure and slides back into his seat. He wagers Stark would stare at him if he wasn't watching the road - as it was, he snuck glances at Steve instead, eyes crazed, alternating between the now empty path and Steve's cold indifference like he was shaking water out of his ears.

  
"what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck?" he hears Stark mutter under his breath. Aside from that, he's taking the situation in stride, though hesitation and panic is clear in the look in his face, the grip he has on the wheel. Steve has to hand it to him, he's dealing pretty well, all things considering.

  
Steve puts down the AR-15 and starts wiping down some of his knives, looking out onto the road as well. "Sorry about that, but you're gonna have to get used to it."

* * *

"Long time no see, Steve Rogers," Obadiah Stane says, stepping out of the shadows like a specter haunting Steve's living room. He isn't a welcome sight, regardless of his intrusion in Steve's home.

  
"What are you doing here," Steve says, curt. He's in his sleepwear, for fuck's sake. His guns have long been buried under cement, along with this life he left behind. It seems, however, the ghost of it follows him still. Obadiah smiles, as sharklike as they come, and walks about, hands leisurely clasped behind his back.

  
"Come now, don't be intimidated. We're friends, aren't we?" He says, settling onto Steve's couch. He pats the spot beside him. "Sit down, I want to talk to you about something."

  
Steve stays standing, arms crossed against his chest. "There's nothing to talk about."

  
"Ah, but there is," Obadiah says, and reaches into his front pocket. He pulls out a golden disc, ornately etched, and holds it in front of Steve. Steve swallows.

  
"Obadiah, you know I can't do that. Not anymore."

  
He levels Steve with a pointed stare, still smiling. "You can. You're supposed to. Such is the way things are in our world."

  
"I'm not part of that world anymore."

  
"But you are," Obadiah says lightly. "As long as I have this, you are," he presses a button, and the disc opens to reveal what's inside: Steve's thumbprint on one side, marked in blood. The other side is still empty, waiting for Obadiah's own print. "It's time to pay me what you owe, Steve Rogers. Blood for blood."

  
The air is deathly silent around them. It's 12 am, and not even the crickets are making noise. Dodger would have normally let him know someone was coming in, that someone had entered without him knowing-

  
Steve's heart skips a beat.

  
"Where's Dodger?"

  
Obadiah looks confused, for a moment. Steve suspects it as a calculated move. "I beg your pardon?"

  
"Where's. My dog." Steve grinds out.

  
"Oh, the mutt," Obadiah waves his hand airily, uncaring. "Don't worry, I have him-"

  
He doesn't get to finish, doesn't even have the time to yelp in surprise, before Steve tackles him onto the floor, face-down. He is heaving but unresistant, Steve's elbow pointedly leaning on his nape, at the most delicate part of his spine. "Do not," Steve pants, "threaten me with my dog."

  
Obadiah laughs still, though breathless, as if they were simply children, playing a game. He knows Steve can't kill him here, not while he holds Steve's marker. Steve is tempted to do it anyway, damn the consequences.

  
"Steve, my boy. I promise he's in safe hands. For as long as I have him, he's safe."

  
"I don't believe you for one fucking minute," Steve says, and pushes his elbow harder into the soft flesh. A warning.

  
Obadiah wheezes, suddenly nervous. "Listen, Steve. I wouldn't be using it against you if I just had your word that you'd honor your promise. You're a hard man to get ahold of, and a marker with you is a wish from a genie," he says, fingers tapping impatiently onto the floor tiles where they're splayed. "I just need you to do this one thing for me. One thing, like the favor you asked me a long time ago, and I promise you'll never be bothered again. You'll even have my protection, I swear it."

  
Steve blows are through his nose. "What is it then. What is it that you need me to do, that you'd kidnap my dog and trespass my house for it?"

* * *

"Can you please fucking explain me what's going on now?"

  
Steve sets down the duffle onto the dusty couch. Sam's hideout place hasn't been inhabited for a while, and it shows in the cobwebs and the damp, ghostly air. However, it's entitled on paper to a man long-dead, and is stocked with more weapons and more ammunition, so Steve is definitely not complaining.

  
Stark is pacing around the living room, frenetic energy practically radiating off of him in waves. "I get the whole, 'someone's trying to kill you, and I was supposed to kill you too but now I'm not, so now everyone's trying to kill me' thing you explained to me - _briefly_ , very briefly, I might add - but _who_ is trying to kill me. _Why_ are they trying to kill me, and _why_ is it so important that I'm dead? Because-"

  
"Because you're Anthony Stark, and Obadiah Stane wants you dead before you reach 21 to keep hold of your status."

Stark looks at him like he's crazy. It's not a new look on him, but Steve thinks it a lot more comical now that they aren't in any immediate danger. He has half a mind to laugh, but settles on a flat expression instead.

"You've got the wrong guy then," Stark says. "Let me go."

"If I let you go out there, you'll die."

Stark brings his hands to his own hair, gripping hard. "You're missing the point! You've got the _wrong guy_. I'm Tony Carbonell, not Tony Stark. Whoever the hell Obadiah Stane is, he can keep whatever status he holds. I'm just a student at MIT on an engineering scholarship!"

Steve cocks his head to the side, assessing him. What's the point of lying, here? Everyone knows who he is. Surely he doesn't think denying something so clearly true is going to save his skin?

"No, you're not. You're Anthony Stark, son of Howard Stark, heir to the Italian Seat. You own the Italian Mafia, along with half of New York City."

Stark nearly screams in frustration, letting out a high-pitched gurgle through clenched teeth. "That's crazy! That is so fucking crazy! Do you know how crazy that sounds?!" He starts pacing around again, hands gesturing wildly around him. "I've never even _met_ my fucking dad, and now you're telling me I'm supposed to believe he's, what? Some kind of mob boss?! Like the motherfucking godfather?! Rogers, you are making zero sense!"

"I'm only making as much sense as you are," Steve says, slumping himself into the threadbare couch. The day's taken a lot out of him, he'll admit, and Stark's theatrics aren't exactly helping soothe his mind. He brings out a rag from the duffle and pulls out a few more of his knives, the metallic sound making Stark flinch. "I've told you everything you need to know. People want you dead, and I'm the only one standing in the way. Simple as that."

Stark eyes the knives with an obvious trepidation. "And how do I know that you don't still want me dead too? Playing with your prey and all that."

Steve gives him a blank look. "That would be counterintuitive, wouldn't it?" He picks up one of the knives laid out on the rim-stained wooden coffee table, wiping the bloodied blade down with one quick swoop. He keeps eye contact with Stark the whole time. Stark gulps.

"How would I know?," Stark shrugs, looking away from Steve as he crosses his arms, a kind of self-defense. "Again, I'm just a guy."

Steve scoffs, continuing his methodical cleaning. If there's one thing Stark is, it isn't 'just a guy'. "And I'm just a contract killer."

"You... are now making it sound like you're not just a contract killer. Who are you, anyway?"

Steve can't help it. He laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> no regular updates for this until I'm actually done with the whole thing, and I'm not sure when I'll have the time to do that, but I love this stupid movie series and I love this AU, so i don't plan on leaving this alone.
> 
> If you're here, thank you for reading!


End file.
